


So Much For Deduction

by Birdgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, That's all for now... but there may be more I forgot about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdgirl/pseuds/Birdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only situation where deduction will not help Sherlock solve his problems (also known as love)</p><p>A series of chronologically-linked drabbles based on dialogue in the series. That's right- drabbles with a plot and a timeline. Feel free to blame me for the apocalypse.</p><p>(written before series 3 with johnlockness)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You are Sherlock Holmes

Your name is Sherlock Holmes, and there are three studies in the world that you consider worthy of your time. The first and foremost is Deduction, obviously. The second is medical science. These first two are nearly one and the same when it comes to your job- they complement each other and form a delicate balance. It's the third study, and most probably the most ridiculous that you have a personal affinity to. It's called Love.


	2. Fantastic

"Her coat is slightly damp; she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too; she's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff."

You are pretty proud of yourself. You know you shouldn't be, because it's the same to you as if you were teaching a group of four-year-olds how to tie their shoes. It's not as if you did anything that would be a feat for you.

"That's fantastic!"

No, no- that didn't come from your head. It does sometimes- the imaginary fan-voices complementing your ingenuity and pure brilliance. Translating "sod off" to "good job". No, this time it was real. It came from your new flatmate, John Watson- despite yourself, this somehow made you brighten up a bit.

You smirk. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

You suddenly regret your words. "No, it's… fine."

Maybe this guy wasn't as much of an idiot as everyone else. Not that he wasn't an idiot- they all were- but you knew there was something about him… Maybe bringing him along wasn't a bad idea, after all.


	3. I know it's fine

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

You tore your eyes away from the street. This new man, this John Watson, was in the middle of a stakeout for a brilliant serial killer, and he wasn't even paying attention. Didn't he realize how much of the fun he was missing getting caught up on NOT THIS?

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." you stare back at the window, hoping the curt answer will deter him from pursuing the subject.

"Oh, right then…" you notice John frown slightly, confusedly. "Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way-"

"I know it's fine." please, please, PLEASE let him be done with his rambling. You've missed at least 3 cars by now by engaging in this conversation.

"So you've got a boyfriend?" his tone is almost hopeful, in a 'you must have some sort of sexual relations I can pinpoint' sort of way.

"No." curt. To the point. The monosyllabic end to this meaningless conversation.

Nope.

"Right, okay. You're unattached, just like me. Fine. Good."

Now it's the end. Finally. Your gaze is re-trained on the road. A lady coming home from an affair is walking down the street, obviously off to meet her real husband somewhere else. How could you tell? Because of her anklet. But that's not important at the moment.

Your thoughts stop in their tracks. You hate it when they do that. It either means you've missed something, or figured out everything all at once- and you just don't know which. And then you get it. Unfortunately this time, it's both. Your mouth is open before you know what it's saying.

"John… um… I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm-"

"No-"

"-really not looking for anyone-"

"No. I'm not asking- no. I was just saying, it's fine. It's all… fine." you don't know why, but you hear something akin to disappointment in his voice. You don't think he knows why, either.

"Good. Thank you." you finish, awkwardly, even by your own standards. In fact, this whole conversation is unsavory.

No matter- something interesting has come up. There's a cab stopped by the road. Why would a cab stop like that? Cabs just don't stop for more than maybe a minute. You think you've found what you're waiting for.

It's time to catch another psychopath.


	4. Just Kidding

"I need to get some air; we're going out tonight."

Your head is pounding. Actually, it's been pounding for a while now. All these facts and clues- they're all there, they're all relevant, but how do they connect? A killer who can climb, Chinese numbers, a missing museum worker…

"Actually, I've got a date."

You pause. But- this doesn't make sense. What did he mean? A date with who? What could be more important than this? They were in the middle of a case!

"What?"

John gives you a 'you've got to be kidding' face. You don't know what you could have possibly done wrong. Was he bored? No- who could be bored at a time like this? John interrupted your quickly scattering thoughts.

"It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun…" he stressed the fun a little too much, you think. The case is fun, right? What could be more fun than the case?

"That's what I was suggesting." If all a 'date' entailed was two people having fun together, didn't they do that all the time, anyway?

"No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not." he retorts- and you frown, just a little. What could be more fun than catching killers? Who could be more fun than you?

You hope that this is what John calls "just kidding".


	5. Interesting

"A Study In Pink. Nice." Not really.

"Well, you know. A pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

You pretend to think about this for a minute, which ends up being about a second. Why would he even ask a question like that? You were obviously using sarcasm.

"Ummmm, no!"

He seems puzzled by your reaction. "Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

Oh, now, that was funny. A real comedic, that John. "Flattered? 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'." Oh no, John, you didn't have to- you're so flattering!

"Now hang on a minute, I didn't mean that-"

Ha- this was rich! "Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way! Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister, or who's sleeping with who-"

"Or that the earth goes around the sun."

"Oh God, that again! It's not important!" When would he understand?

"Not important? It's primary school stuff! How can you not know that?" John Watson, does it LOOK like you are in primary school? You don't see the relevance. Now it's time to take a deep breath.

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it." This is the most logical answer you can supply.

"Deleted it?"

"Listen," you sit up from where you were lying down on the couch, and point in the vicinity of your brain. "This is my hard-drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters! Do you see?"

John pauses for a minute, and for just a second, you think that he'll get it. You think, maybe, that he'll realize the very first time for once that you're right about everything.

"But it's the solar system!"

You let out an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, hell! What does that matter?! So we go around the sun! If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference! All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your blog - or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"

With a flourish of your robe, you slump onto the couch, back turned towards John. How dare he! How dare he make you feel so… secluded. For once, you feel as if you've been living under a rock. No, you still don't give a damn about who's sleeping with who- you don't care if the sun goes around earth, or whatever. But John does.

It's both frustrating and challenging, being with John. He doesn't understand things, doesn't solve cases, even half as quickly as you do. But he's also the only person you can have a debate with- who will start an argument until you're forced to think something through.

Because unlike other people, John isn't afraid of a good quip. Because unlike other people, John will not just question you because he doesn't believe you, he'll question you because he wants to know how to do it. He will complement you sincerely, then tell you exactly what you have done wrong, when nobody else would.

He is, simultaneously, the most determined and the most difficult person you've ever met. But, you think, that's also what makes him the most interesting.


	6. You are John Watson

Your name is John Watson, and you've just met the most wonderfully mad human being in the world. You think, possibly, this could be extended to the entire universe. His name is Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective on the planet, and the only man who can drive you bonkers and make you laugh in the same minute. You are certain about 2 things about Sherlock Holmes- one, is that he loves his work, and the other, that you love him.


	7. Concentration

"John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

You look at Sherlock, puzzled, and a bit alarmed as he grabs your shoulders, making you tense.

"Wh-what? Why? Why? What are you doing?"

He's spinning you around, now, staring with his bright, bright blue eyes, right into your dull brown ones, shining even in the dim light. His black-gloved hands are on your shoulders, firm and sure, and he's spinning you around, like you're on a merry-go-round. But not very fast- why are you so dizzy? No, wait- stop that. You have to pay attention! He's saying something. What is he saying?

"I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah…" Yeah. Right. The pictures.

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely-"

"You remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How much can you remember it?" His tone is almost urgent. He's come closer, so that your faces are mere inches from each other. No! Stop that! The pictures- this is about the pictures!

"Well, don't worry!"

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate-"

You sigh inwardly. "Yeah, well, don't worry, I remember all of it."

"Really?"

His tone snaps you back to your senses. Well YES, really- what did he take you for? Some old incompetent git? You push him off your shoulders, searching your coat.

"Yeah, well, at least I would, if I could get to my pockets! Took a photograph... "


	8. They'll talk

You shake away your nerves, and straighten your coat. That Moriarty, whoever he was, was going to get a good chin before this was over, if you had anything to say about it. You think back to moments before- that strange calm you felt when Sherlock came into the room, even being strapped down with a coat full of bombs. You remember, just seconds ago, the diligence and hurriedness Sherlock displayed as he ran over and slipped the offending coat off your shoulders, flinging it away. The thought, strange as it is, makes you smile.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

Taking a glance at the consulting detective, you finally understand what he means by someone thinking too loud. He's standing there, a mixture of relief and rage coloring his face. You can tell he's thinking about how to track down Moriarty, working out what to think of his new archenemy, brain working so hard it looks like it hurts. Your comment, however, seems to stir him out of his thoughts.

"Mm?"

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." You smirk, just a little nervously. 

Wait- why are you nervous? The danger's over- for now. And, it is true- it's a subject you've been meaning to ask Sherlock for a while now. People MIGHT talk- everyone from Mrs. Hudson, who at one point had some ungodly notion that you should want to share a room, to Sherlock's former client at the restaurant, who put a candle on your table.

Sherlock gives a little smirk of his own. "People do little else."

You have to turn away when you hear this, else he'll see you're blushing up to your ears. Maybe Mrs. Hudson wasn't so far off, after all.


	9. Sheet

You look around. Oh, God, this is really happening. You are really sitting with Sherlock in BUCKINGHAM PALACE. And on top of that, circumstances couldn't be weirder. No- scratch that- these circumstances have Sherlock written all over them.

It was such a Sherlock thing to do- the flat intruded by government agents ordering him to accompany them to the very highest place in British government, and he won't even change out of a sheet. He's had that sheet wrapped around him the whole time- so there's no way to know how much of him is clothed underneath it- or rather, how much of him ISN'T.

"Are you wearing any pants?"

He looks at you, straight faced. "...No."

"Okay." you both go back to staring straight forward. It's not long before you both burst out laughing.

With Sherlock Holmes, one thing is for sure- NO day can ever be boring.


	10. No Shit Sherlock

"Punch me in the face."

Wait, what? What did he just say?

"Punch you?"

He gives you an exasperated sigh, as if it's obvious. "Yes, punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me?"

"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext." See, that- that was clever. That's right Sherlock, you can be clever, too-

"Oh, for God's sake!" he snaps, and all of a sudden he's crushed his fist into the side of your face. Oh-ho-ho, that's it. If it's a fight he wants, it's a fight he'll get. You give him a swing of your own that sends him staggering, and before he can recover you launch yourself onto his back, fighting your way into a chokehold. His eyes are wide as he struggles to hold your weight.

He chokes out "Okay, I think that's enough now!"

Eventually you get off his shoulders, catching your breath, adrenaline spike leveling out. He gives you a stern look, then levels off to his normal expression of annoyance. You can't believe that just happened- you just want to laugh from the sheer randomness of what just happened. But then again, he did just give you a fat lip.

"You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people!" you start, and he looks at you questioningly.

"You were a doctor…" well, no shit Sherlock. An ARMY doctor.

"I had bad days!"


	11. Look at Us Both

"He will outlive God trying to have the last word." It's no question who you're talking about, you think. The real question is why you're talking to HER about this. Her with her phony smile, revealing dresses...

"Does that make me special?" she smirks. Damn that smirk.

"I don't know, maybe." is what you say, but you're thinking more something along the lines of 'over my dead body'.

"Are you jealous?" there is no tone of sarcasm in her voice.

You struggle out an answer- god, how did this woman know everything? Maybe she WAS just like Sherlock. Maybe they would make a good couple. Maybe-

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are." She replies as if she's stating a fact, simultaneously sending a text on her phone.

Your face grows just a little bit red, and you gesticulate in what you hope is in an exasperated way. You know that's just a lie.

"Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but... for the record, if anyone out there still cares — I'm not actually gay." Another lie. That was all a lie.

She smirks again. Oh, how you wish you could slap that smirk off her face. "Well, I am. Look at us both."

You nearly laugh aloud. Yes, look at you both. A lesbian and a straight man, In love with Sherlock Holmes.


	12. Missed Clues

Your name is Sherlock Holmes, and you have just come to a realization. The clues were all there, just pieces of the puzzle, waiting to be put together. They were always there, right in the corner of your mind. He was always there, your first and only friend, who somehow managed to leap slap bang in the middle of your heart. Sentiment is funny like that, you think. LOVE is funny like that.


	13. Impossibilities

It can't be real. It can't possibly. This is impossible. There's got to be- there has to be some explanation. Your mind is racing, and for the first time in a very, very long time, you have absolutely no idea what to do. Instead you focus on yourself.

Your emotions are taking control of your body functions. Elevated blood pressure, raised heartbeat, muscles strained, and your fingers are trembling not from the cold, (the fireplace keeps the indoor temperature at a toasty 20 degrees) but merely of their own. You realize with a start, that what you are feeling is called fright.

"Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid."

"Sherlock…" There is worry in John's eyes. Worry, and… something else. You think it to be akin to pity. You don't need pity right now. You need to find a cure- a cure for this curse called emotion.

"I've always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from feelings. But you see, body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions... grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment." Even now, in the relative safety of a warm pub near a soothing fire, your emotions chill you to the bone.

"All right, Spock, just take it easy." John says- you realize it is an attempt at humor. However, you don't really get the joke. At any rate, it's irrelevant at this moment- you, Sherlock Holmes, have let your emotions get the better of you. You, Sherlock Holmes, are AFRAID.

And that's the thing with emotions. Emotion is not a stomach bug, that goes away or causes mild discomfort- it is a virus. If not treated quickly, it spreads. Once defeated, it will still keep coming back, changing shape, evolving to a point where it can again worm inside of you, ruining everything. Changing your thoughts, changing the way you think those thoughts, and making you powerless to do anything about it.

You take a glance in John's direction. He is looking at you worriedly, now, and you realize how utterly transparent your feelings are- how obviously they are showing on your person. He is looking at you with dark brown eyes that shine in the firelight like stars through the thick treetops of the moor. You observe his tightened jaw, and the fraction of a tooth biting the side of his lip, light eyebrows furrowed.

And you suddenly realize how alone you are. There are others in the pub, but you have the corner by the fire all to yourselves. It's so private. Seeing John's expression, your brain instantly supplies words like "cute" and "sexy" and other things you should not be thinking right now. And you had better stop thinking about them, because in the state you're in, that might show, too.

You take a few deep breaths, and push back your fears. There's an explanation for everything. Absolutely everything. There has to be- and you're going to figure it out.

At least, that's what you're hoping.


	14. A bit too late

John runs in the room, breath heavy. His hand is on the door as the words rush out of his mouth. "Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson – she's been shot."

You look up from your thoughts, bewildered. "What? How?"

He looks at you with something close to disappointment, as if it's somehow your fault. How could it be your fault? 

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract... Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."

"You go. I'm busy."

"Busy?" His tone is incredulous, bordering on exasperated. You know his real question is 'busy with what, you sod'? But that's not your concern right now.

"Thinking. I need to think."

"You need to...?" he starts, giving you a look that suggests he can't believe what he's hearing. He restarts his sentence. "Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!" he's gone from exasperated to strongly perturbed in a matter of seconds. Interesting. But, wait- oh yes, that's right, Mrs. Hudson.

"She's my landlady." It was a true statement.

"She's dying…" his perturbed attitude is quickly growing to an angry one. He glares at you. "You machine. Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own." he begins to storm out of the room.

You are starting to get angry yourself. Something about John always makes you a bit more sensitive than usual. You think that he doesn't understand what you mean, now.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." you call to him, still sitting in the chair, arms crossed.

John comes back to the doorway, pissed. "No." he says, seething. "FRIENDS protect people."

"I don't have friends."

John pauses, hands curled into fists at his sides. He looks like he wants to punch something. Or you. Probably you. Tight-lipped, he storms away.

You realize your mistake just a little too late.


	15. Bona Fide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can be read as stand-alone, but happened directly after "A bit too late"

You run outside, chasing after your colleague. "Listen, what I said before John, I meant it. I don't have friends; I've just got one." you say. It didn't quite come out like you thought it would, but you hoped he would understand- really, you're sorry.

He pauses, turns around. Nods once. "Right." He continues walking away, long strides with a purpose- to get away from you. He didn't get it.

You call after him. "John? John!" you start to run towards him, trying to close the distance. You're desperate, now. Desperate he'll listen, desperate he'll forgive you. You didn't mean what you said. You have a friend, you have a BEST friend. You have a colleague, a flatmate- a partner. And his name is John Hamish Watson. 

"You are amazing, you are fantastic!" you're still running after him.

He slows, stops. You see a smile creep up his features, and you know that you'll be forgiven- that you already have, actually. He smirks. "Yes, alright, don't have to overdo it."

You are happy, but at the same time, a bit put out. Because, you don't think you overdid anything. This time, you meant what you said, and you said what you meant, because an elephant's- no, wait, that's Horton. At any rate, it was bona fide, those complements. You hoped John knew you weren't just flattering him.


	16. Take My Hand

"Hmm. Bit awkward, this." You say, as your hand is being cuffed to john's, and you're being pressed to the side of a police car.

John agrees, nodding "There's no one to bail us."

You look at him, eyes a bit wilder than you meant them to be. "I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."

"What?" He was clearly surprised. Oh, John, John, when will he realize that you just do surprising things, and he should just accept it?

You grab a police radio, and crank up the feedback. The police clutch their ears, groaning and trying to get their ear buds out. You disarm the nearest officer and drop the radio, waving the gun around.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you please all get on your knees?" you fire a warning shot. "Now would be good!"

Not that you’re interested in wasting your time so horribly, but you think if you wanted to, you could be pretty good at this "dangerous psychopathic criminal" thing.

Lestrade, ever-faithful, immediately assumes your threat is genuine. "Do as he says!"

"Just so you're aware, the gun is his idea... I'm just, you know…"

John's a little apprehensive. Trying to calm down the situation, just a little, as if he wants to make sure you don't do anything actually stupid. Ha! Like you would do anything really stupid right now.

"My hostage!" you interrupt, bringing the loaded gun up to his head.

He looks at you for a minute like you're absolutely crazy, giving him a quick look that said something like 'you better be pretty fucking careful with that thing'. John turns back to the police.

"Hostage! Yes. That works…"

Lestrade swears. Yep, Detective Inspector, this is where things get complicated. That was when they made a run for it.

The handcuffs were pulling painfully on Sherlock's wrist, as he was pulling John, with shorter legs, along with him.

"Take my hand!" that way, the handcuffs wouldn't hurt so much. And, also, this might not be the best time- but you had always wanted to try holding hands. Damn sentiment.

He's running, and panting, but still manages to give you a look. Then he smiles.

"Oh, people are definitely going to talk."


	17. Unfair

Your name is John Watson, and your life isn't fair. It never was. Every word, every smile, every time he held his warm hand to yours- you should have known it was too good to be true. There were so many times you doubted Sherlock's capabilities- only to be amazed by his completely indisputable victories. These were the times when you hated yourself for doubting him. But the worst part- the very worst part- was that in the end, he doubted himself.


	18. You Could

"I'm a fake."

What?

"Sherlock…"

His voice is shaking. It makes you want to cry, it's desperate. Why is his voice shaking? Why is he on that roof? Why won't he come down?

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly; in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you... that I invented Moriarty for my own purposes."

Every word he speaks, now, it's like a bullet in John's chest. What brought this on? He's not going to… oh god, no, he can't. He just can't. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself. You would rather die than him. You know this for a fact. Why is he doing this? WHY is he doing this?

"Ok, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" Grasping at straws. You're almost gasping, now. Almost about to break down.

"Nobody could be that clever."

It's a lie. Of course it's a lie. How could it be anything else? All those cases, all those adventures. Everything they had been through. They could never have been made up. It was all too real. They were all too real. SHERLOCK was all too real. But why this? Why now? John had the horrible feeling that somehow, he would never know.

"You could." it wasn't so much a statement. It was a belief. It was a fact of life.

He may have said something else, but at this point, you're too desperate. Bribes, commands, pleas, they're not working. Then he says those two last words, and you finally know what it's like to break your heart.

"Goodbye, John."

And then he jumps. Just a black figure in the air, all curly hair and whipping cloak, falling, falling, falling. You don't hear him hit the ground. You don't hear anything.

And you're running, running across the road. He has to be okay. He has to be okay. He has to be okay.

You don't remember the last time you cried this much.


	19. If Only

It's not fair. It's just not fucking fair, you think, as you stand in the middle of a graveyard. You stare, stare at the gravestone with its reflective marble surface. An image of a short blonde man stares back at you, wearing an old black jacket, and worn out black jeans. The face is depressed, dismayed, withdrawn. The image is only broken by tiny etchings in the stone- 14 letters.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

You start talking, before you even realize what you're saying. Talking to empty air.

"You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero. Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there. I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this... "

If only he could know, you knew that he couldn't be lying. You knew that it was all so very real.

If only he could know you still loved him.


	20. Never Stop Loving You

Greif. That's the only word to describe your life right now. Unless you wanted to use 'nothing', because that would work, too. Because you're nothing. Have been now for 3 years.

You've come home from the shopping. Just a few groceries- eggs, bananas… milk. Ha. The milk- he never got the milk. Not once. You give a half smile at the thought. It's all you can manage these days.

You fit the key into the lock, opening the door to the empty flat. It's quiet as it's always been. But also, you think, the loneliest. You trump up the stairway he used to bound back and forth across. Enter the main room and walk past his sofa, his chair, his skull. You couldn't bear to get rid of them, not even the violin in the corner by the window, which was slowly gathering dust.

You walk into the kitchen and set the grocery bags down on the very much empty table. It was never empty when he was here. Papers, files, petri dishes, all spread out, not a square inch of room.

You put the milk in the fridge, which is also empty, for the most part. There are no more body parts, no more head to reach around, no bag of thumbs to push aside (those got moldy and Mrs. Hudson made you throw them away). Just regular old food where regular old food goes.

You finish putting away the groceries, and walk into the living room, staring into the empty seat in front of you, exactly where it was the day you moved in. Mycroft offered to take it off your hands, but you said not over my dead body, thank you very much. It was going through the same thing as you- sitting there, waiting for its companion to return.

Taking a deep, rather shaky breath, you walk over to it, and sit down. It almost feels wrong, like you're invading his space. Space he hasn't been in for 3 long years. Empty, empty space.

But it feels good, feels like home, you think as you close your eyes. In some ways, it feels like him. It creaks as you shift, or was that the door? Could be a breeze, or could be that this chair is getting old.

It smells like him, too. His cologne, his special… you dunno, his special scent. It brings back memories, happy memories of happy days. The happiest of your life. There and gone.

"John."

Yes, it was just like that. That's how he said it, back then, when you liked your name. John is such a boring name by itself, and you never really liked it. So mainstream, so boring. Not unless it came out of his mouth.

"John."

You feel a tear start to run down your cheek. You'll never hear that again. You'll never hear or see or feel him again, because he's dead. As a doornail. He jumped off a roof, for Christ's sake-

"John."

You open your eyes. No, no, you thought you did. But you must still be dreaming. You try again, closing and opening. Opening and closing. The image is still there. But it can't be real. It can't. Things like this just don't happen in real life- it's just not possible. You know it can't, because people who are dead do not under any circumstances stand in your flat, bent over, with their face inches from yours.

"Honestly, John, have you become deaf while I'm away? Or mute, for that matter- you'd think, after 3 years- mpfff!!!"

This is real. This is oh so very, very real, you think, as you bring his, Sherlock's, head of curly hair down to meet your own, kissing the damn sod for all he's worth. He's real. It's not a joke. He's alive.

You break from the kiss, and he pulls back, pale cheeks red, curly hair going all over the place. You stand up, spreading the distance between you just long enough to give him a good right hook to the jaw.

He falls back, eyes confused from the undoubtedly mixed signals you're giving, but he doesn't complain.

"I deserved that." said Sherlock. Your Sherlock.

"Yes, yes you did."

 

And then you laugh. And this time, you know you'll never have to stop.


End file.
